


A Night on Earth Could Pull Me Through

by essieincinci



Series: No Finer Mess To Be Found [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Daddy Kink, hints of age play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essieincinci/pseuds/essieincinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the No Finer Mess to be Found-verse, Clint and Coulson started here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Warbrain by Alkaline Trio. 
> 
> Once again, huge thanks to alittlepudge_neverhurtnobody and vanessadoes for being awesome.
> 
> I'm pretty sure none of this will make sense without reading the rest of the series.

Coulson has a moment of cradle robbing panic in the dim candlelit restaurant when Clint walks over to his table and asks "Phil Coulson? Natasha’s friend?"

Because Clint is all slim-fitting suit and eyeliner and gorgeous, so gorgeous. Coulson has to remind himself this is supposed to be just a fling. Natasha had been very clear that this guy was very busy and just needed to blow off some steam. And Phil doesn’t have time for a relationship right now, anyway.

“Uh, or not?” Clint continues, nervously backing up, his smile gone and his eyes tight.

“No!” Phil pulls himself out of his analysis to stand up. “Yes, I’m Phil, hello. It’s good to meet you, Clint.” Phil holds his hand out.

Clint grasps his hand, gives it a firm, no-nonsense shake and sits in the chair opposite Phil when he gestures toward it. “Not so much what you were expecting, then, huh?" It's not so much a question as a casual observation. "I told Nat not to talk me up so much,” Clint’s smile is back, but it’s hard and false and the tightness around his eyes is still lingering.

“Oh, no, that’s not what I was thinking at all. It’s just that Natasha told me you were a non-traditional student, so I was thinking you’d be … older. I ordered wine, is that ...” Coulson trails off and Clint laughs.

He pulls out his wallet and hands it over, ID showing through the little window. “Thirty-one last month. I promise I’m old enough for a glass of wine. I’m just surprisingly well rested tonight. Catch me during finals and you’ll have no problem believing it.”

Phil laughs, tension broken, and the rest of the evening progresses shockingly smoothly. Phil’s never had a date go this well, this effortlessly. But he supposes that’s what happens when there are no stakes, when there’s no risk.

Once they’re settled, Phil can see the mannerisms that give truth to Clint’s age, wrapped up in contradictions that make him seem so much younger. His table manners are impeccable but still practiced, not effortless in the way that comes with familiarity.

His stories verge on  unbelievable  and edge into slightly inappropriate for the upscale atmosphere, and more than once, Phil watches Clint curb his enthusiasm for the topic at hand, bring things back down to a subdued level.

But Clint is so full of life and bizarre knowledge and he is adorable and unexpectedly sweet. Coulson sees why Natasha thought they might have some fun together.

The final clue comes when Clint doesn’t even bother to put up a token protest when Phil offers to pick up the check, and that’s something all of his dates have done as if it’s a scripted part of the evening.

Coulson’s never thought himself as interested in an arrangement like this, but he can maybe take a few weeks of casual fun with Clint. It’s not like he can’t afford to pay for dinner and a nice hotel room a few more times, especially if this is what will be waiting for him at the end of the evening. What was the point of following his dreams and working for Nick’s label if not freedom?

He’s washing his hands, resolution firm in his mind when he heads back to the table to settle up and see if Clint would like to have a drink at a hotel bar. There has to be a hotel bar fairly close to the restaurant.

So he’s surprised when Clint follows him out to his sedan and says, simply, that he had a very nice time and that he hopes they can do it again sometime soon. He leans in for a chaste kiss and then turns before Coulson can even wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t even get to try the drink line he’d practice in the restroom.

Clint just left, no innuendo and no offer to continue this elsewhere.

That would usually be a sign that the one date would be the end of it, they’d never see each other again. But Coulson wasn’t getting that vibe at all. He’d had a lovely time, Clint seemed to have had a good time, they’d spent, good lord, four and a half hours lingering over dinner. Coulson drives home, a little confused and a lot intrigued as to what this Clint character has in mind.

****

Clint calls him the next day on his break from work to set up another date.

****

After their third date, Clint goes out and finds a job at a soul-sucking cube-farm, 10-6:30 Monday through Friday, 8-1 every other Saturday, because Coulson is a serious, mature grown up, and Coulson probably wants a serious, mature relationship, and Clint really, really likes Coulson.

A lot.

Coulson is smart and nice and good to him and he listens to Clint and doesn’t seem to think Clint is all that terrible or stupid, and also Coulson didn’t seem to mind telling Clint what to do in bed. But in a nice way, and he hadn’t made fun of him for wanting that when it came up.

But Clint is miserable, this job makes him want to cry.

It is just _awful_. He has to be at his desk all the time. His lunch, his breaks, his _restroom time_ is scheduled for him, and the job itself is mind numbingly dull data entry.

He knows Clint and Peggy and Natasha are tired of listening to him whine about this stupid job. He just needs to go slam his frustrations out in the pit.

But he has all these night classes this semester and Coulson doesn’t seem to really be into a lot of hardcore bands, and he really wants to spend what little free time he has getting spectacularly laid by a gentle, competent older man who will pin his wrists and tell him he’s good.

Last night, Coulson had let him suck him off and said, “Oh, you’re sweet. You’re such a responsive little thing, aren’t you? And doing well, so good for me.”

Clint can't even think about it without getting hard, and he's taken two unscheduled restroom breaks today just to breathe deeply and recover.

Clint’s so frustrated and sad and he knows he needs to drop properly, but he isn't about to ask that of Coulson, not yet. They’d only just gotten to the good stuff. 

He thinks Coulson gets it. Most vanilla people never think to praise him if he’s doing well. 

But he doesn’t want to risk it.

He can handle it. He’ll be fine with some rough-ish sex for a little longer. This feeling will pass, it will. But not if Coulson doesn’t understand him when he says he wants it a little rougher, but not mean. A little harder, but not angry. When he says he’s subby but he doesn’t like being hurt all that much.

****

He’s so tired he falls asleep on the bus and misses his stop. He has to walk a couple blocks back to Coulson’s apartment and if he were more awake, he’d be afraid of the cops busting him for public intoxication, even though he hasn’t had a drop to drink in a week.

But he’s here, he’s got this. He’s off next Tuesday, mostly. Just the office job; no class, and no papers or projects due for a week. So if he can just make it three more days.

Three more days: two office shifts, one restaurant shift, two lectures and then he can sleep for like fifteen glorious hours.

He knocks on Coulson’s door, taking a thirty second nap with his forehead braced on his fist on the door until he hears Coulson slide the deadbolt open.

He straightens quickly, cocky grin firmly in place. “Hi.”

“Clint, hello. Sit down, please.”

And it wasn’t an order, it _wasn’t_ , but suddenly he’s eye level with Coulson’s hip and Coulson’s hand is tugging lightly at his hair.

“Clint?”

“Shit,” Clint struggles to his feet, wondering if he can claim he tripped.

But Coulson’s hand tightens in his hair, tips his head back, holds him in place. “Stay down,” he orders, voice firm. “What's this about then, sweet boy?”

And Clint just breaks right there on the floor, clutching Coulson’s knees. Jesus, he’s so pathetic, and he’s just so _tired_.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He wants to get up, to go, to just leave. “I’m just tired, I’m sorry, I don’t need this, sorry.”

“I think that’s not entirely true.” Phil clears his throat. “I can take care of you. If you’d like.”

Clint looks up at him, eyes bright and a little lost. “You can?”

“Go to the bedroom. Undress. Wait for me at the foot of the bed.”

Clint goes.

****

Coulson blows out a breath. He turns the oven off and looks around the kitchen. This … was not what he had planned for the evening. Not that he was opposed to topping Clint, not at all. He’d been semi-unintentionally doing it their entire relationship thus far. But this was clearly something different.

He walks into the bedroom and Clint’s posture is perfect, kneeling, hands folded behind his back.

He’s also asleep.

“Clint,” Phil touches the back of his neck.

Clint jerks, breaking posture, and then rights himself. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers.

“Come up, sweet boy,” Phil presses his fingertips just into Clint’s neck.

“No! No, I’m okay, I can do this.” Clint’s posture straightens.

“Of course you can. And you will. Come up onto the bed now.”

Clint rises and climbs onto the bed.

‘That’s it. Good. Now lie down.” Phil removes his belt and shoes, sliding in behind him. “I’m not going to do anything we haven’t already done.” Phil wraps Clint up in his arms and grasps his wrists, squeezing. “Close your eyes.”

Phil holds him tightly, secures him, and between one breath and the next, Clint’s asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief mention of age-play in this chapter.

Clint is expecting a scene. Coulson told him to come over, letting his voice drop low. He’s not sure how Coulson plans to turn his elegantly understated apartment into a dungeon, but if anyone can do it, he can.

He's a little disappointed when Coulson answers his door wearing jeans and a sweater. It’s a nice sweater. Looks soft. But it’s not very. Dom-y.

“Clint, hello. Let me just grab my coat,” Coulson smiles at him, and he kisses him on the cheek as Clint steps across the threshold.

“We’re going out?”

****

Clint’s sitting at the table in this fancy little bistro, twelve-dollar hamburgers and local microbrews only, and he’s ready for Coulson to break up with him. It’s going to happen, it’s only been a matter of time, and it’s going to happen now, because between ordering their entrees and getting them delivered, Coulson said it. He’d said those words, “So, we need to talk.”

And Clint’s picking at his burger, waiting for Coulson to break up with him because he can tell Clint’s just pretending to be a real-life grown up.

Coulson takes a deep breath. “Hard limits?”

“What?”

“We need to discuss your limits before we do anything serious.”

“And you chose this place?” Clint looks around at the dark wood paneling and the waitstaff in waistcoats and bowties.

“They’re discreet and they’ll leave us alone.”

“Sure. Well, I’m not into humiliation, so-”

“Clint, Clint, wait.” Coulson reaches out, stops him with a hand around his wrist. “This really is the best place for this. Look around.”

Clint takes in the high-backed booths, the way he hasn’t been able to overhear the other conversations of the other patrons.

“And if we try to discuss this at home, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

Clint sighs, admitting Coulson is probably right. “Fine. Flatterer.”

“As you say. So, hard limits?”

Clint pokes at his fries. No, his _frites_. This is the worst idea ever. “Fluids. And … _stuff_.”

“Okay, good. Agreed. And?”

Clint shakes his head.

Coulson _hmms_. “Safe word?”

“Peaches.”

“Peaches?”

Clint nods, looks away. He’s only got so much defiance in him. It’s a stupid fucking word, but he picked it when he was a cocky little shit and never thought he’d use something as ridiculous as a safeword. But it’s what he picked and it’s what’ll come out of his mouth even if Coulson tries to establish a different word at the start.

“Peaches it is. What do you like?”

Clint shrugs. “Whatever.”

Coulson folds his hands on top of the table. “What don’t you like, Clint?”

Clint looks away again.

****

It probably wasn’t fair, exactly, to wait until Clint was soft and sweet at his feet, but he wanted honesty and he needed Clint to actually respond to him. He’s not above playing a little dirty when it comes to this.

“Clint? How old do you feel?”

“One hundred and seven.” Clint smiles up at him.

Coulson smacks the back of his head lightly. “Clint.”

“I feel … my age? I guess?” Clint slithers his way onto the sofa to curl up next to Coulson. He’s learned over the past month or so that Clint likes the comfort of cuddling when he has to talk. “What are you asking me? And am I going to have to have feelings about it?”

Coulson dives right in. “You suck your thumb.”

“Fuck you, I do not.” Clint sits up, presses himself into the far corner of the sofa.

“Language, Clint. The rules still apply,” Coulson says, gauging Clint’s reaction.

“I do not suck my thumb. I’m not. I’m not some kind of _child_.” Clint crosses his arms, his voice dropping softer.

“I know that, sweet boy. But do you want to be?”

Clint shakes his head.

“I need your words, Clint. When you’re ready.”

Clint stares at his lap, arms still folded, shoulders hunched.

“I don’t need a daddy, Coulson.”

Coulson waits. Patience is usually the only solution in discussions like this.

“But. I might want you to want to take care of me.” Clint’s voice is low. “And be proud of me. Because I’m good sometimes.”

“Of course you are, sweet boy.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“No. But if I want to?”

Clint picks at some invisible lint on the couch cushion. “I guess that’d be okay.”

****

Phil stutter-steps a bit when he comes out of the kitchen to see Clint, sleep-soft and adorable, in short yoga pants and a loose sweatshirt, hanging off his shoulder and down over his wrist. It’s pink.

Clint comes over to him, steps right into his space and demands a hug.

“Good morning, sweet boy,” Phil says.

Clint mumbles something into his neck.

“Of course it’s okay, Clint. You’re beautiful.”

****

The next weekend, Phil comes home to find Clint already there, stirring a large stew pot and wearing a sundress.

Which is, while not unexpected now that he’s thinking about it, new.

“Smells delicious, sweet … heart,” Phil stumbles, wincing. He’s not sure how to address Clint in this state.

“I’m still your boy, Boss.” Clint grins over his shoulder, his smirk failing to hide the way he hesitated over calling himself Phil’s.

“What’s for dinner, then?”


	3. Chapter 3

Clint loses track of Steve about three seconds after they walked into the frat house. A room full of ex-jocks succumbing to the freshman fifteen and access to unlimited beer is Clint’s idea of what Steve’s idea of heaven must be like. He wishes Coulson were here, but he’s got some kind of big talk idea about Clint’s identity becoming too wrapped up in his submission and how he needs to maintain his friendships or some nonsense.

Clint would be more willing to believe his reasoning if Natasha hadn’t told him they were in the middle of a contract dispute with some under-performing band at the moment.

After an hour of half-hearted dancing, Clint stops in the kitchen for a drink and finally finds Steve again. Instead of hooking up, he’s staring intently at Peggy, wide-eyed and insistent. Peggy’s watching him, amused, and making eyes at some other girl across the room. She’s the only person Clint knows who can actually ‘make eyes’ at someone. It’s unnerving.

“What happened here?” Clint asks, throwing an arm around a clearly stoned Steve.

Peggy gestures at the counter. “Brownies. Steve apparently never learned to check before consuming snacks at frat parties.”

“Clint,” Steve says, tugging at his arm. He proceeds to poke at his arm for a while.

“You want me to take him off your hands? I see you seeing that pretty little lady over there.”

“Will you promise me you’ll take him home, Clint?”

“Course,” Clint pulls a mostly-passed-out Steve closer to him. “Steve-o! Tell me the history of geometric tats, buddy.”

****

Coulson sips his coke, watching as Clint and Steve grind on each other. He’d known Steve from work, but they’d never socialized before, and he’d never put the slight, professional artist he knew from the office together with Clint’s “tiny little fireball of righteous indignation and art” former friend-with-benefits.

Coulson’s not altogether opposed to picturing the two of them together. They do make a striking pair, after all, with Clint's muscular arms around Steve's narrow shoulders. But he is starting to feel his possessive side take note. Clint doesn’t brat; he’s too approval-hungry and unsure of his place yet to intentionally rile him up like that.

Besides, the way he’s watching Coulson is less flirty and more considering, and Coulson isn’t sure what to make of that just yet.

Steve turns away from Clint with a quick kiss to his shoulder to dance with this enormous bear of a man. It’s almost comical, except, like most of what Steve does, it somehow isn’t.

Clint weaves his way back to the table. He drains a bottle of water and grins at Coulson through his lashes. “So, you like watching that?”

“Very much so, yes.” Coulson’s still watching the way Clint’s watching Steve.

"You like Steve, right?" Clint asks. He’s resting his hands on the back of his chair, but he isn’t sitting.

“Yes. He’s a good kid, seems sweet."

“Sweet." Clint stares across the dancefloor. "He’s probably my best friend, other than Natasha. I never would have gotten through my language requirement without him.”

“What did you take?” Coulson asks.

“Fran-says,” Clint says, purposefully mangling the pronunciation. He swallows, and then starts talking Steve up. Coulson’s about to stop him when Clint shrugs and he says, "So, you know, I can fuck off for a while if you want to give that a shot."

“What?” Coulson looks past Clint’s shoulder to where Steve’s blond hair is barely visible in the crowd.

“No, seriously, Steve gives head like a pro, and he’s. Well, he’d probably be up for it.” Clint chuckles. “Yeah, he’d definitely be up for it. Though you might be a little bossy for his tastes. You’ll probably have to tone that down if you really want a shot with him.” He looks at Coulson earnestly.

“Clint, I’m here with you.”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s okay, Coulson. You don’t got to dance with the one what brung you.”

“Clint, you’re my boy. I’m not interested in Steve.” He adjusts his sleeves, regretting his decision to wear a sweater and not his suit. He likes his suits.

“Why not?” Clint spins the chair he’s been leaning on around, straddling it aggressively. “Steve’s _great_. You could do a lot worse than Steve, you know.”

“I’m sure Steve’s wonderful.”

“Damn straight Steve’s wonderful,” Clint says forcefully. “So what were you watching, then, if you don’t want Steve?”

“I was watching my boy,” Coulson says, a little helplessly. “I was watching _you_.”

Clint licks his lips and blinks. He opens his mouth a couple of times. “Me.”

“Yes, sweet boy. You.”

****

“Waterproof my ass,” Clint says, roughly tossing his club sandwich back down on the plate. His tiara is lying upside down near the sugar dispenser, and his elbow-length gloves are wadded up next to it. His mascara is already smeared, so he rubs viciously at his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not.” Coulson’s learned that when Clint says things like this, it’s best to agree with him until he can untangle his words. His costume’s cape is folded on the booth seat beside him, and his mask sits on top

“And I’m not superstitious.”

Well, that’s just patently untrue. “Okay.”

“Peggy’s shop is haunted,” Clint says, glancing at him from under his lashes, body turned half away from him, shielded, even though Coulson’s all the way across the table and has never once raised a hand to him in anger.

“I. Understand that you believe that, Clint,” Coulson says, leaving his hands visibly on top of the table.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t _not_ believe you. I’ve just never believed in _ghosts_ , Clint.”

“Then you’re the stupid one.”

“Clint, no name-calling.”

“Don’t Dom me now, Phil.” Clint throws his balled up napkin on top of his sandwich.

“That isn’t how it works,” Coulson says, squeezing his fork in his hand. He forces himself to loosen his grip.

“I’m not in the mood for this right now. Especially from someone too _stupid_ to believe me when I tell you there are _fucking_ ghosts in that _fucking_ store.”

“You being mine isn’t something we just turn off when it’s not convenient for you to be polite to me.”

“You fellas need anything else?” Ruby’s voice, falsely bright and cheerful, cuts through the air. It doesn’t escape Coulson’s notice that she slides up to the table on Clint’s side, and pats him reassuringly on the shoulder when she asks.

“Some decaf for you, Phillip?”

He’s drinking water. “No, ma’am.”

She squeezes Clint’s shoulder again. “How about you, honey?”

Clint shakes his head and squirms out past Ruby, the taffeta of his Halloween costume rustling behind him. “I’m going to Steve’s. He’s a bossy little bitch _and_ he believes me.”

“Decaf for you now, Phillip?”

Phil nods and stares at the empty space where Clint just was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part of this story was inspired by an ask I got[ here on tumblr. ](http://essieincinci.tumblr.com/post/102546465146/cpb-headcanons-question-not-so-much-a-character)You can hang out there with me if you want. sometimes I play in this universe there. 


	4. Chapter 4

Coulson answers the quick rhythmic knock on the door to find Clint looking defiantly sheepish. Only Clint could pull off the combination, honestly.

“We could have done this in your office, but most of my shit’s here, so…”

“Come in, Clint,” Phil says, stepping back. He thinks about the handful of personal items Clint’s left around and wonders if he’s exaggerating. Most likely not.

“So, if you want me to fuck off, this won’t take long, and if you feel like forgiving me, well, all my shit’s here anyway,” Clint shoots a cocky grin at him.

Coulson can see the way his eyes are darting around, never quite settling on one spot. “You know this isn’t over, right?”

“I know.” Clint bounces once up on his toes before he settles. “You gotta punish me.” Clint looks away, takes a few steps around the living room. “Maybe not a spanking, though?”

“What?” Coulson’s spanked Clint dozens of times. For fun, for punishment of minor infractions, just because Coulson wanted to.

“Nothing, never mind. It’s your choice. I know that. I _do_ know that,” Clint raises his chin.

Phil considers. “What do you need to be punished for, Clint?”

“For being stupid,” he mutters.

Phil frowns. “No.”

Clint flinches slightly, but he says nothing.

“Go sit at the table.” While Clint dutifully goes, Phil takes a moment out of his sight to collect himself. When he walks into the dining room, Clint smiles weakly.

“It really won’t take long for me to get my stuff. I can be out in, like, six minutes, tops.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Phil sighs. “We do, however, need to talk.”

Clint barely suppresses his eye-roll. Given Phil’s additional sigh, he wasn’t as successful as he hoped he’d be.

“You’re not stupid, Clint.”

This time Clint does roll his eyes. “I know. I got a fancy college learnin paper that proves it.”

“ _I_ don’t think you’re stupid, Clint.”

Clint doesn’t say anything.

“We can table the discussion of supernatural presences for a later date, but what we can’t let go is the fact that you were rude to me,” Phil ticks this off on his fingers. “You refused to take my calls for three days, which we specifically negotiated you would not do,” Phil raises a second finger. “And most importantly, apparently you’ve been keeping from me the fact that spankings are distasteful for you.”

Clint opens his mouth as if to speak.

“I’m not finished. The question right now is, do you not like spankings, or do they distress you in some way?”

Clint shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Now is not the time to be less than truthful.”

Clint tenses, bites his lip. “I don’t like them, okay? But it’s not like I can’t handle it. You don’t even hit me all that hard.”

“Well, that is just not true.”

“Not when you use your hand.” Clint meets his eyes.

“I don’t often use just my hand, though.”

Clint shrugs. “I can take it.”

“You can, but if it causes you distress, you shouldn’t have to.”

Clint traces patterns on the table. “That’s kind of my place, isn’t it? To take what you want me to so we can get to the good part?”

“The good part?” Coulson questions. “So that’s not the good part.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know what I’m supposed to _say_ here, boss,” Clint looks up, helplessly.

“Okay.” Phil stands. “Wait here.”

Clint waits, wondering if he’s really screwed everything up this time. He keeps  wavering  back and forth, at first he was sure Coulson was going to tell him to get his shit and leave for good. He wouldn’t have bothered, but when he said most of his shit was here, he wasn’t lying. He can’t fit into Steve’s clothes, and Tasha gets mad when he stretches out the shoulders of her shirts.

Then, Coulson said he needed to be punished, which he knows. He’d been dumb and rude and he’d intentionally stopped taking Coulson’s calls just to see how long it’d take him to give up. But Clint didn’t think Coulson was the type to beat him and then kick him out.

And now, Coulson wants to talk and mess up this easy pattern they have, where Coulson gets what he wants, and Clint waits until he’s satisfied, and then Clint gets what he wants. Putting up with a little spanking is a small price to pay when what comes after is so good. It’s a reasonable give and take, and nice arrangement, and Coulson’s been very careful to make sure they’re even.

“Clint. Come in here, please.” Phil calls from down the hall. Not the bedroom. The bathroom?

“Sir?”

“Get in.” Phil gestures toward the tub.

“To the … bubble bath?” Clint glances skeptically at the tub. It smells amazing, cinnamony and maybe oranges and there are so many _bubbles_.

“Yes. Get in.” Phil takes off his sweater.

“I don’t need a bubble bath.” Clint says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not a child.”

“Yes, we’re going to readdress that conversation as well. For now, you need what I say you need.” Phil takes off his belt.

Clint doesn’t mean to stare, but he hates the belt. He almost, _almost_ safeworded out the last time Phil used a belt, but the actual hits weren’t bad at all. The sound though.

“This is just so I can take off my pants, Clint.”

“I know that,” Clint says quickly.

“Good. Now, get in the tub.”

“You get to say what I need, for like, being held down and fucked. This is not -”

“You told me you trusted me to take care of you.”

“Right,” Clint nods.

“So you either do, and you’ll get in, and we’ll finish our discussion and renegotiate, or you do not, and you’re free to take your things and go back to Steve’s.”

“For tonight?”

“For good. I don’t like ultimatums, Clint, but unless you have a good reason not to want a bath that you are willing to discuss with me, this is how this is going to work.”

“There are a lot of bubbles,” Clint hesitates.

“There’s also a rubber duck in there somewhere for you.”

“Is he yellow?” Clint asks.

“Purple.”

“Well in that case,” Clint says, and shimmies out of his jeans.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Clint, come inside,” Peggy says, leaning out of the doorway to her shop.

“No.”

“It’s freezing out here.”

“I _know_.” Clint bounces up and down a few times and claps his gloved hands together. “Tell Steve to hurry his ass up.”

“Just come in and wait for him in here,” she says again.

“No!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m here,” Steve says. “Sorry, Clint, I got caught up.”

“I know.” Clint clears his throat, then addresses the building. “Attention, ghosts. You stay here. I respect that this is your final un-resting place, and I didn’t disturb you, so just stay put!”

“Clint,” Steve says at Clint’s expectant look.

“Say it.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he says, “I, too, am asking that you just stay here, ghosts.”

“Thank you. Now, where are we getting lunch?”

“This is why we always meet you places you know?” Steve says, knocking his shoulder into Clint’s. Well, Clint’s bicep, but still.

“Trust me, kid, I don’t want to come here any more than you want me to come here.”

“Did you and Coulson ever make up?”

Clint shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “You know, I decided it was good that he doesn’t get it. Like, that means he’s never experienced the supernatural, so I don’t have to worry about him.”

Steve thinks that sounds like a leap of rationalization, but pretty much everything about Clint is semi-spurious and tangled up in his own brand of circuitous logic. “Good. I like you together.”

"Yeah."

****

Coulson looks up at the knock on his door and the somewhat uncertain “Mr. Coulson?” from his new intern.

“Yes, Leo?”

“I apologize if I’ve given you the wrong impression. While you are certainly an attractive man, a very attractive man, my interest in you is purely professional.”

“Leo?”

“Yes?”  Leo cringes.

“What brought this on?”

“I think your boyfriend wants to kill me.”

Phil thinks back to last night, when Clint fell asleep in his lap, his thumb pressed to his lips and holding his new favorite purple teddy bear in a stranglehold. Phil tries not to laugh. “That’s just his resting face.”

“Well, you can let him know we’ve had this chat anyway, yeah?”

“Sure.” Phil can’t help it, Clint’s a bad influence. “Leo, has your band found a drummer yet? You know, Clint can play, and I’m sure he’d be happy to help you out.”

Leo crosses his arms. “Rude.”

Coulson smiles, point made. “Close the door behind you, please.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Barton?” the officer calls, and Clint sits up, mindful of his ribs and squinting his good eye so he can see.

“Maria?”

“Oh, hell, Clint? Skinheads again? Where’s Steve?” She turns back around to the desk to find Clint’s file.

“No. Steve’s fine, the shops are all fine. This? This was _far_ more personal. But who wouldn’t believe the senator’s brother when it’s my word against his?”

“Grant?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm.” Maria reads over the witness statements. “Tell me you won?”

 “Oh, _hell_ yeah, I won.”

 “Good. Did someone call Coulson yet?”

 “Yeah. He’s on his way.” Clint sighs. “He said we’ll be having a discussion about this.”

 “Want me to drum up some charges for you, keep you in longer?” Maria grins at him conspiratorially.

 “Nah, but thanks. Think you can make my four previous arrests disappear before he gets here?”

 “That’s a little above my pay grade.”

 “How about you just take the ones where I was picked up for tricking? I’ll keep the murder charge.”

 “You ... have strange priorities, Clint.”

 “Nah, he knows about that one already.” Clint shrugs. “It’s how Natasha and I met, and she’s how he and I met.”

 There’s a pause while Maria replaces Clint’s file. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. Tell me that story, and you can wait at my desk instead of down here.”

 “Right, so I was sitting in the interview room, shit-scared and dealing with bad-cop and twice-divorced-on-his-third-coronary-cop, asking for a lawyer, because that was the only thing I could think about. So my public defender swept into the room, shooed the cops out to have a moment alone, and I just started bawling.

 “‘Look, I know you won’t believe me, but I did not do this, I didn’t!’

 ’Okay,’ she said noncommittally. ‘Tell me why I should believe that.’"

“And okay, so it was her job to believe me, but it’s not like we don’t both know how that works.” He glances up at Maria to gauge her interest. It’s not a long story, but it’s not particularly exciting, either. Not when it starts with a dead body and a murder charge.

Maria nods. “Burn out. Overworked and underpaid civil servants. I don’t have any experience in that arena.” She smiles self-deprecatingly.

“Right. She has to show up and do good enough, but she didn’t have to _believe_ me. _Maybe_ I was out on the street to _maybe_ make a few quick bucks, and _maybe_ I ducked into an alley to get out of the rain and check the dumpsters behind the bagel shop, because sometimes if you time it right, you can get some that aren't too stale or moldy or rat-bitten yet.”

“Only, clearly someone else had been in the alley, and killed some dude stone cold dead. So I go over, kick at his hip, all ‘Hey, mister, you need to sleep it off somewhere else’ like some rube off the turnip truck. As if he wasn’t clearly really, really dead. And I reach down to see if maybe he had a cell phone.”

“‘To steal?’ the lawyer asked, no judgement.

“She’s great at that. Total blank slate. I knew right then I was going to ask for lessons. If I ended up in prison for real, well, I’m charming, but I ain’t prison charming.

"’No!’ I said. ‘Well, okay, if it was a newer one, maybe. I just told you I was dumpster diving for bagels and blowing people for twenties.’ She nods and I go, ‘Are you allowed to be my lawyer if you're younger than me?’"

"’Yes. Continue your story, please.’ Butter wouldn’t melt. She’s the best.” Clint sighs happily. He really loves Natasha.

"’There's nothing to continue.’ I said. ‘I was looking through his pockets for a phone - oh, right, so I could call 911. It's not like there are payphones anymore, and none of the businesses in the district were still open. And that's when the cops rolled up.’"

"And here we are," Maria says, echoing exactly what Natasha had said back then.

"And here we are," Clint agreed. “Nat goes, ‘Should be easy enough to get you out of here,’ and I said, ‘Well, I mean, don't hurry. County still serves chicken and noodles on Tuesdays.’

Maria nods, excitedly. "I think that’s where half the impounded crack goes, hand to god.”

“Right? I’m trying to get Coulson to file a class action to release the recipe under the Freedom of Information Act. So anyway, I tracked Nat down a few days after I got out of jail and brought her flowers. There was a whole thing where she thought I was hitting on her, and that was crazy awkward for a while, but I was just trying to say thank you. She’s kind of a classy lady, and movies say you bring classy ladies flowers, you know?”

“How’d that go?” Maria asks.

“Natasha snorted. ‘Buy me a burger and we’ll call it even.’ Only, you know, the flowers took basically all my cash, because I lost my job on account of not showing up for my last shift due to being a murder suspect, and I didn’t think I was allowed to dine and dash with my lawyer.

“So she bought me a burger, and let me crash on her couch when I wasn’t crashing with Steve and Peggy, and left criminal law for contract law after we did a thing that I’m not allowed to talk about to get Steve’s shop away from the Russian mob. Then she met Coulson, hooked us up, Steve still has _fucking_ awful taste in men, Coulson is _not_ my dad, and I think that brings us to right about,” Clint mimes checking his non-existent watch, “now.”

“That’s … a hell of a story, Clint.”

“Yup.” Clint says, shooting a finger gun at her with his left hand. His right hand is still splinted, so it doesn’t work as well.

“Hey, Maria?” Clint says. “One, maybe keep my record mum for me? I don’t mind people knowing, but I kinda like them to know on my terms. And two, I know what a concussion feels like, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have one, but was there a mountie in here earlier? With a blonde guy? And maybe. Um. A wolf?”

“Shhh!” Maria rushes back to the bench, slapping a hand over his mouth. “If you talk about them, they might come back!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally only alluded to, but [alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody](http://alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com/) convinced me to expand it.


	7. Chapter 7

“Who’s going to give Bucky the shovel talk?” Clint asks, sipping his daiquiri and letting Natasha finish his nails. They’re a beautiful plum shade Coulson brought home for him as a surprise. Surprise, not bribe, Clint reminds himself, and purposefully stops thinking about Coulson’s upcoming business trip.

“Peggy,” everyone else says.

“Hmm. It seems I’ve been elected,” she confirms.

“Have they finally started dating?” Pepper asks.

“No,” Clint says, pouting.

“Yes,” Natasha says.

“No,” Clint says.

“Hold still, I’m doing your caveman toes,” Natasha says firmly. “They went out last night. Sam told me this morning that Ruby told him when he came in for breakfast that they were there last night for hours.”

“That is an impressive yet reliable game of telephone,” Pepper says.

Clint holds his straw out to Natasha so she can sip. “So wait. Steve actually had a _date_?”

“A real date?” Peggy asks, finishing the second coat on her toes. “I’m not impugning his character, I love Steve with all my heart. But…”

“But we all know Steve. Cut to the chase. Did they fuck? Or are they really _dating_?” Clint says.

Natasha shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s not like they invited me along. Bucky seems pretty smitten though.”

Clint snorts inelegantly. “Have you seen him stare at that kid? It’s obnoxious.”

“It’s adorable,” Pepper says.

‘I’ve noticed, you’ve noticed, everyone in Brooklyn has noticed. The question is, has _Steve_ noticed?”

“You know Steve,” Peggy agrees. “Do we actually think Bucky needs a shovel talk?” Peggy asks.

Clint hops up and walks, splay-toed, into the kitchen. “Anyone coming within four feet of Steve needs a shovel talk. He’s got the self preservation instinct of …”

“You,” Natasha finishes for him.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation while he runs the blender for another round of daiquiris, and a special blender full of pina coladas for Pepper. “So how would that work, actually?”

“Clint, sweetie, are you asking how gay sex works? Because I know you and Coulson get up to strange things, but you do have sex, right?” Pepper says.

“I’ve walked in on you in the bathroom at the club,” Natasha adds.

“One time! And god, don’t ever let Coulson know you were there, I’ll never get club head again!”

“Club head,” Natasha mumbles.

“I know how it works between us. I’m asking how it would work between them.”

“Tony and Bruce would be more than happy to come show you.” Pepper loses the end of her sentence in her giggles.

“No, you terrible human being, you are cut off if you make me think about Tony having sex.”

“Why not? I enjoy thinking about it. I might think about it right now.”

“Me too,” Natasha says.

“You, woman, are a liar.” Clint point at her, holding her drink above his head and out of her range.

Peggy scrunches up her nose. “No, thank you,” she says primly.

“No, shut up, all of you. I’m saying, you know, Bucky’s kinda ...” Clint gestures at his stomach, then hands Natasha her drink, sucking on his wrist where it dripped. “And Steve’s really. Um.” He holds his hand at waist height. “Not.”

Peggy reaches out and pushes his hand up to shoulder height. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“The point stands,” Pepper says. “But I think it’ll be good for them. Bruce agrees.”

“Bruce, not Tony?” Peggy asks, letting go of Clint’s hand and flopping down on the sofa next to Pepper.

“Tony’s still busy pouting that Bucky danced with him and didn’t proposition him.”

Clint starts to object. “He would have said no, though, right?”

“That’s really not the point with Tony.” Pepper puts the back of her hand to the side of her mouth and stage whispers, “He’s a little high maintenance,” and then dissolves into giggles again.

“How many of these have you had, Pep?” Natasha asks, taking her drink away from her.

“So many,” Pepper sighs.

“We’re agreed, then?” Natasha asks, braiding Pepper’s hair out of her face, just in case. Pepper’s always had a bit of a sensitive stomach.

“The council has spoken,” Clint announces, solemnly. “You’re up, Peggy.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Coulson.”

“Bucky.”

“I want to ask you a question, but I want you to know you don’t have to answer.” Bucky unleashes another volley of shots dead center.

“That’s impressive.”

“I’m not Clint, but ...” Bucky trails off.

“No one else is, thank god. Would your question concern metaphorical cake, by any chance?” Coulson shoots his own target, slower but still accurately.

“You could say that,” Bucky says, clearing his weapon and starting the process of cleaning up. “Maybe a different kind of dessert.”

“Ask away, then.”

“What’s the deal with your name? Why won’t you let Clint use it?”

Coulson laughs. “I don’t have any rules about that. That’s all him.”

“Really?”

“This seems more like a beer conversation than a firearms conversation. Let’s go.”

****

“You’re familiar with these sorts of things?” Coulson asks, not quite fiddling with his cocktail napkin.

“I told you, I toured around the area, so to speak, back when I was in the service, but I’m a pretty vanilla kind of guy, really.” Bucky nods, taking a long sip of his microbrew. “Clint hates this place, doesn’t he?”

Phil looks around the pub. “He thinks it’s pretentious. Well, he does now. Originally, every time I brought him here he thought I was going to break up with him.”

“You have to admit, it has that kind of vibe.”

“Perhaps.”

“You really don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just thought it was. Not odd. Maybe notable? That Clint doesn’t ever call you by your name.”

“No, it’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s just that no one really asks.”

The first time they purposefully scened, when Coulson was still feeling him out, he had put Clint on his knees in front of him, as a sort of inspection. To his surprise, Clint had gone smoothly, naked and with perfect posture, just as sweet as a Top could want. Clint was just starting to drop, and Coulson let him wait, watched to see if he’d start fidgeting sooner rather than later.

He hadn’t, and Coulson finally grabbed his hair and ordered him to lick.

Clint had replied softly, "Yes, Master."

And Phil barely stopped himself from laughing. "Just ‘Phil’ is fine, Clint."

It was the wrong thing to say. Instead of reassuring Clint, he heard Coulson telling him he was doing it wrong, that he wasn’t being good. So he shook himself, tried to focus and stood up. "Look, if you're not serious about this ..."

“So there I was,” Phil said, glancing over at Bucky, “standing in my bedroom with a naked sub in wrist and ankle cuffs and in a moderate state of dishabille. I was, as a matter of fact, pretty damn serious.” Phil had purposely kept the scene light that night, because he knew damn well he couldn’t trust a sub as needy as Clint had been, as eager to please as Clint seemed to be, and they were both still feeling each other out.

He didn’t insist on most of the ceremony and pomp and circumstance of the BDSM scene. Frankly, he found it ridiculous and Clint admitted he found the cheesiness of it distracting and couldn’t always drop the way he wanted to if he was too focused on the rules.

At least, that’s what Clint had told him in their negotiations. But he also had clued in that Clint needed at least some of the ceremony, otherwise he didn’t feel like it was real.

“So, there you were, confused Clint and your dick hanging out,” Bucky prompts.

“We compromised on ‘Sir.’ Clint accepted it and it didn’t make me squirm. ‘Boss’ was Clint’s idea,” Coulson tells Bucky, grinning over his beer.

“I didn’t think that was something you dreamed up. Is it left over from prison?”

“Clint was never in prison. He spent a few nights in jail, but that was more for his own protection. No, he picked it up from some god-awful made-for-TV softcore movie.” Coulson laughs, a little lost in the memories.

Bucky likes this side of him, is glad he gets to see it more often.

“He only calls me Phil when he’s mad at me. He tried to call me Mr. Coulson once, but he was also wearing a sundress at the time and he looked uncannily like my fifth grade girlfriend.”

Bucky swallows roughly, choking on his beer. “You timed that on purpose!”

“Well, I am a sadist, after all.” Coulson smiles.  “But enough about me. What brings this up?”

“Steve.”

“Naturally.”

“He never calls me anything but my name. Well, and occasionally ‘asshole,’ but.” Bucky shrugs.

Phil hmms. “I don’t think I have any insight for you.”

‘I wasn’t actually expecting any. I just thought I’d ask.”

“Some people just aren’t nickname people.”

“Yeah.” Bucky swirls the last of his beer in his pint glass. “Clint says he thinks Steve uses people’s names because a lot of people forgot his.”

“I don’t think he appreciates the sentiment, but every one of us would very much like to purchase a time machine on his behalf.”

“Eh.” Bucky leans back in his chair. “He’d just get pissed at you for babying him and go make the same stupid decisions twice as hard.”

 


End file.
